


one true soul desire

by stubbleglitter (maggie)



Category: NSYNC
Genre: Best Friends, Food, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-17
Updated: 2003-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:17:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/stubbleglitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when you are near me i go through a change or two</p>
            </blockquote>





	one true soul desire

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: drug use

And sometimes, he feels like letting it all burn.

They went out one hot summer night when the air was so still it made you feel claustrophobic just standing in one place and breathing it. They went down for a drive, past rural roads and waterways. They stopped at a field because some guys were there in official-looking coveralls, burning the elephant grass.

Chris's car had air conditioning so they sat in it, safe behind glass, and watched the flames snapping and fuming. There were little things zipping straight up from the grass, and at first Justin thought they were ashes. Then the birds came darting in, dozens of them small and frenzied, hovering over the burning licking flames and grass so they could catch the little things, little insects, rising with the smoke.

"Fuckin' _look_ at that," Chris said, fascinated but already shifting the car out of park and back into drive. "It's like we live in fuckin' Africa or something."

Justin said, "uh-huh," and left it at that, but the crackle of burning insects, the crunch of them between beaks, followed him down.

...

The turquoise felt good on his neck, against his throat, resting with a smug weight and Justin could feel its energies sinking into him. He liked the idea of balancing out his chakra energies, liked the thought of upping the level of his oral expressiveness. 

"Your throat chakra is your will centre," he told Chris, snippy, when Chris eyed the turquoise and reached out to flip it roughly around the same way he did with JC's. 

"No kidding," Chris said, looking up with round, round innocent eyes. His fingers were tough and felt pointed against Justin's skin, skidding. "Y'know, I went all Hindu-voodoo for a while, too. Back in college."

"Yeah?" Justin said, noncommittal. He knew Chris too well to venture any more just yet.

"Yeah." Chris smacked his lips and rubbed his hips briefly, lasciviously, against Justin's thighs. "Tantric sex. Best one-hundred-and-eighty-two hours of my _life_." He laughed, high and hard, and jogged over to the craft table to get a bottle of Coke.

Justin reached up to finger the turquoise. The stones were still warm from his flesh, and there were spots of cold necklacing his skin where Chris had pressed.

...

"You know what you'd look really good in?" Chris asked later, when it was dark, when they were alone. He twisted his fingers in among the blue beads and they pinched Justin's skin where they squeezed and clicked together. 

"A pearl necklace," Chris said, his voice mean and amused, and Justin furrowed his brow for a second, opened his mouth to tell Chris _no, fucking Kirkpatrick, you're not putting any of my momma's goddamn jewelry on me_ before the penny dropped and he was left gasping, suddenly breathless.

Chris shifted so he was on top, straddling Justin and looming suddenly, and Justin tipped his head back and didn't quite close his eyes.

...

Justin looks at himself in the mirror hard, because this is the only time he has the strength to do it. The gummy resin taste is still in the back of his throat, and it feels like his head is attached to his neck by thousands of tiny bristling shuffling needles, and his eyes are pool-dark and doped when he stares into them.

He knows what he looks like from every angle. There are pictures of every tilt of him, every jut and curve and edge. He slants his mouth open over his teeth, a rictus grin like a horse struck by lightening. He saw a dead horse like that once on television and it was one of the most grotesque and gruesome things he'd ever seen. If he forces the corners of his lips back far enough, he looks almost like it.

His head is spinning when he presses the fingertips of both hands into the small of his back and he imagines that he can feel the raised lines of ink. It makes him feel unbelievably sexy that he has a tattoo there, where he ll never see it, something secret. He likes to echo it all over the girls in his videos. It gives him an ambiguous sort of cruelty, in a way he can't define yet.

Chris's laugh sometimes is jagged and unabashedly cutting, and his eyes when he does it are slitted but clear, clear straight through. Chris is on intimate terms with viciousness, and he's not sharing.

One of the bulbs in the row over the mirror blows, a quiet but definitive _pop_, and Justin turns the light off and leaves the bathroom.

...

He's sitting in a limo with his foot all casted up. He's sipping a bottle of beer halfheartedly. He's slightly headachy and the funky stones studding his belt are poking his stomach in weird places. 

Britney called last night, while he was on the phone with Chris. He saw her number come up on the call display and didn't even think about taking it. She'd just have the same old shit to say anyway, and so would he, and even if they tried to have a decent conversation one of them would end up bitching the other one out. 

He doesn't want to deal with her right now, even though it's all anybody wants to ask about. He reads all the print and how every interview mentions his pr forbidding questions re: Britney, and him bringing her up anyway. He vaguely wonders if Britney's getting the same deal, and then dismisses the thought. He's too tired to ponder her public face right now.

The limo windows are tinted to shit, everything outside slicked over in cool blue-grey. It looks like the same fucking hotels, the same fucking streets he's seen everywhere. 

Justin scratches his thumbnail against the label until it peels away. His life seems stupid, sometimes. Meandering and pointless and unconnected, no plot, no outline. Just flash. If he were a movie, he'd walk out on himself.

He's draining the bottle of beer when his phone rings, and it's, of course, Chris.

"How's the hobblegoblin doing?" Chris crows on the other end, not waiting for an answer before he says, "Dude, I found a copy of the Japanese version of _The Ring_, and we have to watch it! There's a kid with hot pants in it, and I think it's subtitled and shit."

"Hey, man," Justin croaks, the back of his throat thick with hops. "Do I have a storyline?"

"Sure," Chris replies easily. " You're born, you win a beauty pageant, you lose Star Search, you get on MMC and then off again, you join *nsync, you date Britney, you win a lawsuit, you break up with Britney, you go solo, you invent beatboxing and watch a freaky foreign movie with Chris. Sound about right?"

Justin grins, dropping the empty bottle on the floor of the limo. It makes a moronic thud and he kicks it with his sneaker. "Sounds like the shit," he says. They hang up on each other unabashedly.

...

Joey entered the story suddenly, in whooshes of sound and color and warmth that flushed Justin with blood and made him feel bigger, bolder, unconquerable. Joey hugged him hard and hollered "Hey, Jup!" as though he was yelling through a crowd, dragging Justin over to the bar and getting them both scotch on the rocks even though Justin could get his own booze now, had been able to for a year.

"Lookin' good," Joey grinned, and Justin wanted to say it back except he had the flat feeling that it wasn't _enough_, wouldn't do enough to get across just how fucking good Joey really did look. Joey brought with him the unmistakable golden scorch of success, of publicity and fabulous famousness that Justin could practically taste, pouring off him in honey waves.

"Good year for us, man." Justin slapped Joey on the arm and meant it. It was a good time to be an Aquarius, he'd read that somewhere in the back of one of the magazines he was in. Astrology column. Not that he usually put much stock in the things, but it never hurt to believe in the positive. 

"Tell me about it!" Joey drained his glass and put it back onto the bar, motioning for a top-up. "Midas fucking touch, man." His eyebrow stud glinted, diamond gleam, dazzle of stardom. "Certified double platinum and all. How does it feel to shit gold bouillon?"

Justin grinned, wide and easy like his lips were liquid. "Hurt with the first couple, but it gets easier," he said. "You should know, Mister Big Broadway Star."

"Yeah, well," Joey shrugged, but Justin could see the pride in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. "Gotta do _something_ while we're on hiatus to keep the ol' pipes in working condition--not to mention filling up the hours, man. I never realized how much work free time is!"

Justin nodded and thought of when Chris visited and Justin took him to the studio to hear some of the rough cuts of the album. He thought of himself fiddling with Pro Tools and yammering about backing tracks while Chris tapped his foot impatiently, every motion of his leg stirring loose a smell of dry grass and diesel and discontent. 

And here was Joey, good old fucking Joey, smiling at him so hard, and Justin couldn t help himself. Just one night of not having to say "sorry your company went under, that fucking sucks" or "sorry your dreams of going to space got fucking totalled" or "sorry jive's fucking you over although they're helping me", none of that, just mutual basking. Too much to resist.

Justin told himself he wouldn't feel bad the next morning. He did, though. It probably shouldn't have come as a surprise.

...

"You gotta resolve this crap," Lance said. Justin pressed the phone against his ear until it was throbbing and hot and snorted, "Yeah, no shit, genius. Problem is, I don't know what the hell it is I'm supposed to be apologizing for."

Lance hummed thoughtfully, like a particularly wise bumblebee. "Good point," he admitted. "And who're you gonna say sorry to?"

"Ex_actly_." Justin flopped back on the bed, sighing. "So what do I do?"

"Do what I did when I slept with Joey."

"Lance, I don't need a metric fuckload of Dr. Seuss merchandise. In fact, come to think of it, I don't need _any_. At all."

"Come to think of it, no, I guess you don't." Lance paused, obviously amused. "Well, you could randomly sport-fuck all of your other childhood fantasies ."

"Don't even _start_ with me, comrade. You're just as guilty when it comes to chasing down childhood fantasies."

"Well, you're right about that." Lance's voice was gentle, moss-soft and fond, and Justin closed his eyes for just a moment to let it sink into his skin.

"So anyway," he said, belatedly. "Should I tell Chris?"

"Of course you should tell Chris! He'll find out anyway. You should jump 'im on it."

"Okay." Justin rolled over onto his stomach and plucked at a thread that was coming loose on the bedspread. "It's not like we're. Y'know."

"I know. But you should still tell him. Even fuckbuddies have feelings." There wasn't any malice behind the statement, and Justin didn't look for any. If Lance wanted you to be cut by his remarks, he made sure you saw the glint of the blade while he was doing it.

"Love you," he said automatically, and hung up.

...

Chris grins a lot when he's pissed. Justin remembers this when Chris flashes all his teeth. He wishes he'd remembered it sooner when Chris's fist pops him in the side of the head, right against his ear.

"_Fuck!_" he squalls, cradling one hand against his ear, the hearing in which has gone all boxy and dull. "I thought you said you weren't mad!"

"I'm not," Chris says. He's not grinning anymore. "I fucked Britney two weeks ago."

"Good for you," Justin says, then goes, "_what_?"

Chris is jittering madly, eyebrows drawn together. "Yeah," he says. Then he turns and walks off, and Justin stares after him with one ear ringing and wonders what the fuck Lance will have to say about _this_.

...

"It's not like you and Britney are still together," JC pointed out post-the AMAs, blinking behind his nerdy glasses. Justin rolled his eyes and stomped one foot slightly.

"Yeah, I _know_ that, C. Just like me and Joey aren't...aren't _nothin'_. So, what the fuck?"

"Well, I guess Chris thinks that -- wait, uh...are you saying you and Joey _are_ something, or that you're not?"

Justin raised an eyebrow. It felt nice and derisive, snootily baffled. He made a mental note to tell Lance later how much he enjoyed it. "Never mind," he told JC, who shrugged.

"Whatever, dude," JC said, nonchalant. "Just give the man time. He'll work through whatever's, y'know, bugging him, and he'll come tell you how he feels."

"Or he'll never talk to me again."

"Or he'll never talk to you again." JC grinned, bright and for real, and Justin felt a little less like pouting. "C'mon, dawg. Chris'll talk to you no matter what kind of jerk you're being. Or he's being, for that matter. 'Cause both of you can kind of be assholes."

"Oh, sorry -- did I miss the point where you stopped being one too? Because you should've sent me, like, a fucking memo or something."

JC laughed some more and then his eyes shifted, attention caught. Justin could hear Joey behind him and to his great delight, didn't feel awkward about that at all, not even when Joey slid up between them and slung his arms over their shoulders.

"J was whining about how hard it is when you're so popular, you're forced to start sleeping with your boys," JC smirked. Joey grunted and leaned in closer to JC.

"J bleats when he comes," he stage-whispered against JC's hat. JC's eyes went wide, wide blue in delight and he cackled loudly, crumpling in on himself in mirth with limbs flailing everywhere. Joey turned a blithe, beaming smile on Justin, not a trace of remorse.

...

When Chris called him, finally, wanting to get together and go try out some new Malaysian joint, Justin decided that this was a good thing. Chris didn't like walking out on meals, so it would be the perfect time to bring everything up. 

"Nice notch," Chris said when they sat down. Justin ran a finger along the stripe on his head and grinned, self-consciously.

"Needed to shake it up a little," he said. "I fucking hate the awkward grow-out stage."

Chris grunted and ordered a Tsingtao, draining half of the beer in a few pulls. "So, touring," he said. 

"Yeah. Well, I don't...yeah. I guess. I hope so."

They sat quietly for a bit after that because the waiter was hovering at a nearby table, and then the waiter was bringing them their food, and then they were spending time figuring out just how to pull the heads off the prawns and trying to eat the satay without making a huge mess. Finally, Justin put down the same piece of _roti canai_ that he'd been fiddling with for the past three minutes and leaned against the table.

"We should talk," he said, determined. The steam from the food, heated and prickly from the peppers, rose in billows and stung against his chin. Chris poked at his coconut rice and then sighed and sat back.

"About what?" he asked, the corners of his eyes pinched. "Your solo gold? Brit? Joe? Wax figurines? Doobies? What?"

Justin blinked. "I guess all of the above," he said, slowly.

Chris tapped his fingers against the table, chewing on his lip, and then sat up straight. "Y'know what, Jup," he said, "I don't think we should."

"Why not?" Justin was astonished. Usually, if you confronted Chris, he'd be willing to talk. Especially if he was the one who called you first after a fight.

"Because." Chris shrugged. "I know Dr. Phil tells you different, but sometimes you just don't need to talk about shit. You need to deal with your own junk on your own time."

"I dunno," Justin said, dubious. Chris shrugged again, obviously not about to expound, and set about pulling his satay to tiny pieces, dipping it in peanut and tamarind sauces and hissing over the pepper hitting the soft insides of his mouth.

Justin gave his salad a few desultory turns, pondering. He still felt unsettled, unfinished. He couldn't quite figure out if this was one of those cases where you were supposed to accept it when somebody said they didn't want to talk, or if you were supposed to be a good enough friend to push and prod until the person spilled.

"You're not eating," Chris pointed out. Justin put down his fork.

"If you're getting full, you should eat the meat," Chris continued, reaching onto Justin's plate to spear a bit of his _kari_ beef. "Leave the rice and lettuce and stuff, man."

Justin watched Chris eat his pilfered food and was insanely reminded of Germany, when they'd go out and get food and whenever he or Lance looked to be getting full but didn't have enough left to bother taking with them. Chris would assess their plates and instruct them to eat the meat, because it cost the most. Chris had never quite gotten over the idea that flesh was precious.

"So you don't wanna talk," he tried, cautiously. Chris drained the rest of his beer and reached for Justin's _roti_, and Justin slapped his palm down over the plate and Chris's errant hand. "So we're cool?" he demanded.

Chris sighed loudly and yanked his hand back, ripping the bread into flaky fragments. "We're cool, motherfucker," he said. "Can we eat now?"

"We can," Justin said, satisfied. "You're a dickhead."

"You're one times ten."

"Times a million."

"Times infinity, hah hah, loser." Chris kicked Justin under the table for good measure. Justin scowled at him.

"Yeah, well -- betcha fucked Lance in Jamaica," he snarled, baring his teeth melodramatically. 

"Hah! If I had to give a blowjob to everybody who thinks I'm fucking Lance, I'd be on an all-cum diet."

"Fucking _raunch_, man. I'm eating here."

Chris looked pleased, and Justin let it go.

...

Shiva, he'd read in the same book that had all the stuff about the chakras in it, was known as "The Destroyer", a god with an often violent temper and a dark, warlike side to him. He was also the god of creation, productivity, preservation, dissolution. He represented changes in your emotions and relationships and your whole life, and he was about strength and grace.

He had a bunch of old t-shirts with Ganesh on them, Ganesh the elephant-god. He'd chosen those because hey, a god with an elephant-head was kind of cool and cartoony and wouldn't get him laughed at a lot, and anybody who knew that Ganesh was the god of new beginnings and that he blessed creative ventures would appreciate. He'd suited Justin's mood then, what with No Strings and the lawsuit and everything. But that was a while ago, and things had shifted and morphed and re-arranged, and perhaps it was time for something new.

Justin folded up the t-shirts and laid them carefully in the back of his closet, cheerful elephant-face down. 


End file.
